


A True Story

by myrtlebroadbelt



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Parenthood, Storytelling, Young Bilbo Baggins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:38:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4668623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlebroadbelt/pseuds/myrtlebroadbelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belladonna Baggins has never told her husband about her adventures. Or if she has, he can’t be sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A True Story

Belladonna Baggins has never told her husband about her adventures. Or if she has, he can’t be sure. She tells a lot of stories, but Bungo doesn’t know how to separate truth from invention. She may have already told him everything there is to know, or nothing at all.

But she isn’t really telling _him_ , anyway. She’s telling Bilbo. The boy sits in her lap by the fire or on the rug at her feet or tucked into his bed while she perches on the edge of it. His eyes are always bright, his smile always eager. He clings to her words as tightly as he does to her sleeve when it’s in his reach, and he looks at her as if she will disappear if he doesn’t.

She tells him stories, and he listens.

Bungo listens, too.

Sometimes she knows he’s there, sitting adjacent to her in the parlor or across from her at the dinner table. Other times he just happens to be nearby, washing dishes in the kitchen and setting every dish down with care so he doesn’t miss a word. Still other times he steals down the hall when she thinks he’s removing his waistcoat in their bedroom. He lingers by the open door as she speaks to Bilbo in hushed tones by low candlelight.

It’s these stories he listens to the most carefully, purely because she doesn’t know he is. Then again, maybe she knows and she just doesn’t say so. Maybe these stories are just like any of the others, picked randomly to appease a demanding fauntling. Maybe it makes no difference that Bilbo usually falls asleep before she can get to the end. Maybe a lot of things. Still, Bungo wonders.

Belladonna doesn’t use “I.” If any of her stories are her own, they’re disguised as someone else’s. Sometimes it’s an elf or a dwarf, other times it’s an animal or even an object. It’s been a tree. It’s been a tomato. It’s been a very brave coat rack. More than once it’s just been a hero, simple as that. There have been hobbits, yes, but Bungo hardly gives them any more thought than the others, doubtful that his wife would be so forthcoming.

Belladonna’s stories are about dragons and wolves, swordfights and royalty, mountains and rolling rivers. They’re full of twists and turns that inspire the most beautiful reactions in Bilbo. They’re always funny, and they always have happy endings. Always.

It’s useless to ask her for the truth. She won’t budge: “What does it matter what happened before? Let’s worry about today.”

Even when Bilbo asks her outright if she’s seen a troll, or if goblins really exist outside the walls of his room and the limits of his imagination, she’s vague at best, dismissive at most.

He knows some things, all scattered in meaningless fragments over the years. When the wizard visits, her lips curl at some of the cryptic things he says. Once he mentioned waterfalls, and her teacup shattered where she stood. Bungo suspects the old man does it on purpose, confound him.

He peeked in her old, yellowing journal one afternoon while she was at market. He glimpsed unremarkable descriptions of mud and endless trees written in curving script before shame quickly got the better of him and he closed it. He never looked again.

Eventually, he finds he doesn’t need to.

One nippy autumn evening after supper, Belladonna and Bilbo sit curled under a blanket on the sofa while Bungo tidies up the kitchen, his back to the adjoining parlor. When he hears Bilbo ask his mother for a story, he slows his scrubbing on the frying pan in the basin and waits.

Belladonna takes a few moments to decide, her thoughtful humming accented by the crackle of the fire and her son’s impatient pleas. “Give me a moment, don’t you want it to be a good one?” she chides, to which Bilbo sighs.

At last she settles on what to tell him. “There was once a young hobbit lass…”

Bungo’s breath catches, but he quickly reminds himself that this isn’t the first time one of Belladonna’s stories has featured a character such as this. But in the past, there have always been details that shy away from self-portrait.

“This hobbit grew up in a very large and rather famous family, and she was always immensely curious about the world outside the Shire.”

The scrubbing brush slips from Bungo’s fingers and splashes into soapy water.

“One day a wise old wizard in a grey hat invited her to go on an adventure.”

Bungo grips the edge of the sink with slick hands, his heart a heavy, unrelenting thump in his chest.

“The hobbit was very excited to go with him, so she left her family and her home and set off on an exciting journey into the outside world.”

Bungo swallows, wonders if he’s ready for this, considers slipping down the hall into another room and covering his ears with a pillow.

“She saw many magnificent places and met many interesting people, and she had experiences she never would have had in the Shire.”

Belladonna pauses, and Bungo wonders if she’s looking at him, if she’s noticed that he’s stopped washing, that his body is tense with listening. He wonders if she wants him to hear.

Her voice pops through the air like a firecracker. “This hobbit loved her adventures. But when she got home, she realized how much she’d missed everything she’d left behind. The rolling hills and the friendly neighbors, her brothers and sisters, the flowers in her family’s garden.”

Bungo turns around now—the urge to see Belladonna’s face is just too great. He studies the softness in her eyes as she looks down at the boy.

“A few years passed, and although the hobbit appreciated everything she had in the Shire, all the more so for having left it, she found herself longing for adventure again. This was quite a conundrum. She wished there was a way for her to have an adventure without leaving home. For every day to be exciting and new, for her to discover things she never knew before and make a difference in the world. All while being able to see the people she loved and breathe the air she grew up with.”

“But she couldn’t do all of that,” Bilbo protests.

“Couldn’t she?” Belladonna questions.

“No,” Bilbo insists with a shake of his head. “You have to leave home to have adventures.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, darling. And that’s where this hobbit was wrong, too.”

Bungo is moving closer to the door now, magnetized by his wife’s words.

“One day she was at a party, a very big and noisy one with fireworks and dancing and those lemon cakes you like.”

“Can we have some?” Bilbo pleads, his mother’s story suddenly forgotten in favor of sweeter prospects.

“Tomorrow, dear. Now let me finish my story.” She tweaks his nose in mock annoyance, and he rubs it, trying to pout but utterly failing under Belladonna’s gaze. Bungo knows the feeling.

“It was at this party,” she continues, “that the hobbit lass met a hobbit lad. He was very handsome but rather nervous, and she asked him to dance.”

“And then they fell in love,” Bilbo concludes, sounding very bored of the turn this story has taken.

“Oh, you jaded little thing,” Belladonna gasps on a laugh. “Yes, they fell in love. And they got married, too. How do you like that?”

Bilbo sticks out his tongue.

“Well, what if I told you that these two had all sorts of adventures together?”

Bilbo perks up. “With dragons?”

“No, there weren’t any dragons. They weren’t those kinds of adventures. But they were adventures, most certainly. And the hobbit lass got her wish. She didn’t have to leave home to have them.”

“What did they do?” the boy asks impatiently, bouncing up and down where he sits.

“Lots of things. They learned something new about each other every day, for starters. They built an entire house from scratch. They smoked pipe-weed and cooked for each other and planted flowers. They rode in wagons and went to parties and danced. They kissed—don’t make that face—and they held hands, and they kept each other warm in the winter. And they talked so much, and laughed so much, too. Sometimes they argued, but they always made up. They loved each other. And then, after far too many years, they started their greatest adventure of all.”

“What was it?” Bilbo asks, interest renewed.

“They had a mischievous little boy who stayed out late catching fireflies and interrupted his mother when she tried to tell him stories.”

Bilbo’s little brow furrows in momentary confusion, but then his eyes are widening along with his smile.

“That’s about you and Papa!” he declares, proud of himself for figuring it out, even if it took him until the most obvious hint.

“It is,” Belladonna agrees. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?” She leans forward to tickle his belly, and he doubles over, a gathering of giggles and bobbing curls.

Bungo leans against the kitchen doorframe. Finally Belladonna looks up at him, catching his gaze and holding it, their son continuing to squirm beneath her touch.

She smiles. He smiles back.

He may not know which stories are hers, but he knows which one is theirs, and that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short and sappy one-shot about my favorite hobbit family. I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://myrtlebroadbelt.tumblr.com). Come talk to me about the Bagginses.


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